Then surely I’m qualified to present my accumulated knowledge of what does and doesn’t work in the cosmetics industry… yeah?

Pinky aged 9 years

What's with the fringe, MUM??

Bitterly unhappy about the shape of my pointy, largish nose I took to sleeping with a headband stretched over my conspicuous proboscis hoping to restrict its growth. It didn’t work… and the rest of the kids persisted in calling me cruel names such as, Witchy-Poo.

Lemon juice squeezed all over my face to fade my freckles did nothing for me either... except get me into trouble when Mum went to make her evening Gin and Tonic and there were no lemons left.

Pinky aged 16 years

The focus was on developing a deep tan via vegetable oil. Not recommended as thirty years later a very deep sun cancer was removed from my right cheek.

Pinky aged 21 years

Wearing copious amounts of thick makeup was the name of the game during my twenties. Leaving it on after a big night partying was de rigueur and sometimes I’d just slide it around the next day to fill in the gaps. They say every time you sleep in your makeup it ages your face by two days. Okay… by my calculations I must have the face of an eighty-seven year old...Read this terrifying article!

Pinky aged 31 years

If I look frightened it's because I was.

I’d had two kids and was destined to give birth to another three within the next five years. There were NO beauty routines during those years aside from accidentally rubbing some zinc and castor oil cream onto my face whilst changing the baby’s nappy.

Friday, August 30, 2013

Those were the first politically oriented words I’d ever heard my number four son, Padraic utter.

“No-one!” I answered tersely, whilst fishing around for the nylon scourer in the Insinkerator which was causing the entire kitchen to rock and roll every time I turned it on. At least I hoped it was the scourer and not something a little more distasteful.

I’ve an illogical fear that an evil entity will maliciously turn the garbage disposal on when I have my arm sunk into it up to my elbow… or that it’s not actually off, just jammed, and when I release the blockage it will spontaneously begin its grinding and pulverise my hand into mincemeat.

As I said, I answered Padraic’s question with more than a little snap in my tone than usual.

“No-one?” he scoffed, “That’s a bit slack of you Mum… a bit irresponsible.”

This is the boy who walks around the house in his jocks and hasn’t cleaned his room since 2005 calling ME irresponsible.

I never write about politics in my blog. Not because I’m afraid of being shot down in flames by Internet trolls or the fact that I know nothing about it, but because I find it to be excruciatingly BORING!

This blog is about recalling the appalling moments in life and dissecting them down to the finest of details in order to discover something… anything… amusing to be gained from the experience. It’s about being silly, laughing at life and not taking myself too seriously.

Writing on a daily basis for the last eight months has completely altered my perception of life. When sh#t happens I now relish the opportunity to explore the possibilities; dichotomising the various elements of the crisis (whilst using as many big words as I can find in the Thesaurus) and attempting to discover a funny side... and there usually is one.

This is why I was forced to turn my back on Padraic and quietly snigger at his sudden interest in politics. At eighteen years of age this will be his first time at the polling booth and I’m pretty sure he thinks Julia Gillard is still the Prime Minister.

At gatherings, my entire family (mother, father, sister Sam, in-laws, two eldest sons Thaddeus and Jonah) love nothing more than a vigorous, bloodthirsty debate surrounding politics which usually winds up with several fists pounding on the table, shouting matches and someone stomping off to bed with a serious case of the sh#ts.

All the while, Pinky sits in the corner, quietly sipping Chardonay and chatting amiably to her eight year old nephew Heinrich, about little plastic Skylander toys.

Does it make me an unintelligent person because I have zilch interest in and don’t follow politics?

I know one person who thinks so.

As Thaddeus was leaving one such gathering (three sheets to the wind) he lunged at Sam and I embracing us both in a bear hug.

“Would you agree that Sam is the slightly more intelligent sister and you’re the slightly more attractive sister, Mum?” he slurred affectionately.

Sam squinted at him cagily, “Thanks Thaddeus,” she retorted, “No really, thanks…”I, on the other hand, was tickled pink! At last! All throughout our growing up period, Sam was always the “pretty one”! Who cares about bloody brains anyway!

Thursday, August 29, 2013

During the fifteen or so years I taught speech and drama and was the director of a youth theatre company, I would sometimes detect a particular spark, an extra glimmer of talent in one of the kids.

“When you go on stage to collect your Oscar in years to come you’d better mention your old teacher!” I would solemnly command whilst they laughed and promised earnestly to remember me.

Well guess what? I’m thinking my dream may one day soon become a reality!

I first met her when she was two; sitting in a shopping trolley inspecting me suspiciously with her Siamese-blue eyes.

“She’s gorgeous!” I commented to her heavily pregnant mother, Dolly.

“She’s evil!” retorted Dolly, “A little witch.” Dolly was clearly well and truly over her pregnancy coupled with the exhausting effort of running after two young daughters.

The sapphire-eyed Harriet did look a bit of a handful though... I thought quietly.

Fast forward about six years and I was delighted to be consigned the job of teaching drama to all three of Dolly’s kids.

The eldest, a multi-talented Maddie, took on all the lead roles in our plays until finally she moved on to greener pastures allowing her diminutive sister Harriet, to rise from the ashes like a Phoenix, dazzling us all with her energy, vitality and unique ability.

Both girls could sing like nightingales and I’m guessing this talent sprang from their father’s genes as from my educated guess, Dolly shares the same singing ability as me… the ‘did someone just step on a cat’s tail?’ type of tonal quality.

Nevermind; the beauty genes originated from her mum.

For many years Dolly and I would tearfully watch Harriet climbing the stage stairs to collect award after accolade and, self-effacing to a fault, she always remembered to graciously thank the cast and crew. Since she left for the big smoke I’ve been following her evolving success in the Australian theatre and television industry from afar.

Scotto and I watched her vivacious, highly skilled lead performance in the Bell Shakespeare Company’s “Tartuffe” last year and I think our Harry may have learnt a few more tricks since treading the boards under Pinky’s direction.

Every time I see her in a national advertising campaign I’m straight on the blower to Dolly,

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

We held our annual talent quest at school today and kids from 6 years of age to about twelve years took to the stage with acts such as; telling jokes, singing, dancing, playing trumpets, violins, pianos and drums. There were also a couple of unusual acts where the kids sat on the floor, sang a song and appeared to be playing a drinking game with a pair of cups. Not sure what that was about?

Proud parents lined the edges of the shelter shed snapping away like the paparazzi. I remember when my kids were little… nervously watching them perform in singing, dancing and poetry competitions.

Was Pinky a pushy parent?Damn straight I was… especially with Thaddeus and Jonah. The novelty had pretty much worn off by the time the other three were old enough.

Thaddeus recited a poem on stage at the local Eisteddfod after he had just turned four.

Extremely enthusiastic and excited about his performance, the entire time he was on stage he maintained a firm and steadfast grip on his willy. As the poem gained momentum, little Thaddeus’ vocal tone grew higher and higher, as did the level of tenacity with which he clung on to the front of his trousers.

By the time he finished the crowd was howling with laughter. I think he may have received a Highly Commended award for his entertainment value.

Poor unfortunate Jonah was sent to tap dancing lessons at the age of four. Lulu had just been born and it would be at least four years before she would be old enough to send to ballet lessons; I was anxious to have one of my kids dancing on stage... enter, little Jonah.

Pushy Pinky entered the unwilling, tiny Gene Kelly into the Tiny Tots Song and Dance section of the Eisteddfod.

“I don’t want to do it Mum,” he wailed piteously.

“Oh come ON Jonah… what if I give you twenty bucks?” Bribery always worked with this child.

“Nup,” he was adamant.

“What if I give you twenty bucks, and if you come first, second or third you never have to go to tap dancing again!”

“Okay. I’ll do it!”

I thought I was home and hosed. There was no WAY he was going to win any prizes. The kids in the Tiny Tots competition came from all the small towns in the hinterland where there was NOTHING ELSE to do. Their parents were psychotic fanatics and their ‘Toddlers in Tiaras’ lived and breathed the dance studios. Besides, their mothers could sew up a storm in glamorous costumes, unlike useless Pinky.

Jonah’s dance teacher decided he should sing ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe’ dressed as a miniature cowboy with a rocking horse and a gun holster.

Easy costume a la Toyworld for lazy, inadequate Pinky!The big night arrived and little Jonah tap-tap-tapped his way on to the stage, spinning and singing the complicated lyrics with aplomb. Suddenly he slipped right across the stage in an un-choreographed fashion. A gasp went up from the audience…my heart stopped… no, he was up, barely missing a beat and tap-tap-tapping across the stage again.

The crowd cheered; he was so adorable. I was unbelievably proud and visions of a renowned, tap dancing, genious son performing all around the world flashed before me.

MY son would be FAMOUS!

Jonah came second in the competition and sadly for the entertainment industry, never graced the stage in those tap shoes again.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Tuesday is my busiest day of the week, mainly because we have a staff meeting after work and that extra hour throws my entire meticulous timetable out ... that extra precious hour is so bloody important to me.

Today was particularly frenetic because with Father’s Day looming this coming Sunday, it’s the final day I have to buy Dad a present and succeed having it arrive in time through the snail mail.

I calculated that if I managed to escape work at 4:00pm I could get to the shops by 4:30 and parcel it up for mailing tomorrow. I spent all day racking my brain as to what original and creative gift I could buy him… after all, who knows how many more Father’s Days I’ll have with him… I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.

Dad’s a little on the eccentric side. Last year I ordered an exotic silk dragon-embroidered kimono on eBay, which he loved. I’ve bought him enough Mambo shirts over the years to outfit the entire membership of the Cronulla Surf Club. He doesn’t wear aftershave… or read books… or watch movies… or really listen to music. At almost eighty years of age he doesn’t drink and pretty much owns everything a near octogenarian could possibly desire.

It was 4:40 by the time I reached the shopping precinct, agonising over the blank void of ideas in my head until I saw this sign and swerved into the car park. Surely I could find something in this behemoth of manly trappings.

Feverishly running up and down the concrete-floored aisles, my panic rising with every fruitless step, I finally hit pay dirt!

I was still behind in my hectic schedule and wildly drove on to the supermarket for the dinner groceries, stopping by the chemist to buy my drug of choice, Dozile (over-the-counter sleepy-feel-good capsules). I had my answers for the inevitable interrogation down pat… no I don’t use them every night, no I only use them when I really need a good, solid night’s sleep… all the while trying not to look or sound like a junkie. As the lady serving me passed me the package she cautioned,

“You do know these may make you drowsy.”

Okaaaay… I’ll remember that, I thought, WHEN I’M TAKING THEM TO HELP ME GO TO SLEEP!

(Quick kiss, chug down heart-starting coffee, throw on joggers and head out to the path for an hour’s therapeutic power walk along the river.)

It’s seven-forty now and as soon as I’ve finished writing and posting this it will be time to cook dinner,( the ravenous vultures are circling) feed the six animals, make the lunches for tomorrow and put on a load of washing.I bloody hate Tuesdays.

Monday, August 26, 2013

When things aren’t going well in life many people turn to spirituality; they’ll go to church, a mosque, a temple or whatever is pertinent to their faith.

When there’s a man drought happening, women go to a clairvoyant.

Many years ago, having divorced her first husband three years previously, Pinky was sad and lonely. Who would ever want a middle-aged woman with five kids?...she speculated gloomily.

Then she saw the advertisement in the paper;

Miriam the Clairvoyant, doing readings from her home for fifty bucks! Cheap as chips!

I timidly made the appointment and when the fate-filled day arrived enlisted fourteen year old Thaddeus to babysit eight year old Lulu and her brother Padraic for the hour I’d be gone.

“Do you have a piece of jewellery I can hold while I do your reading?” the very ordinary looking Miriam requested. I passed over the gold cross I wore around my neck feeling like an idiot and wishing I’d never committed to this foolish rubbish.

Miriam informed me that she ‘channelled’ guides who relayed all the information she would pass on to me.

“Are you married?” she asked in an odd tone of voice while she fingered my necklace, “How many children do you have? How old are they? What are their names?”

‘Shouldn’t you be bloody telling ME that,” I screamed inwardly, “And forget about the kids I want to know about any prospective whoopy that may be headin’ ma way.”

Shallow Pinky? You bet!… after Miriam finished with the boring stuff about the kids, she finally began to get into the juicy details.

“You will meet a man,” she slurred, with her eyes rolling back in her head (no she didn’t, I’m exaggerating for effect).

“This man,” she continued, “lives in South Queensland. He’s a bit of a character and loves to dress up. I can't quite picture him... but he has a young daughter.”

Alarm bells went off. Noooooo…. I have enough kids already.

“You will meet him around your birthday and he will immediately fall hard for you. He is a big softie and VERY romantic and you will marry him.”Well, THAT sounds alright. I urged her on.

“He will see you as… the complete package.”

Aaaah, that must mean my beauty, wit and enforced thriftiness, I thought.

“This will definitely happen around your birthday… within the next five years,” she concluded.

When I arrived home fifty dollars lighter, I discovered Lulu lying on the couch with her foot packed in ice. Despite my warning to remain in the house she’d gone out the front, climbed a tree and jumped down breaking her foot. The damn clairvoyant didn’t see THAT coming DID SHE???

Ridden with guilt I angrily threw the recording of the reading she’d given me in the trash, and that was the end of that. I promptly forgot the whole episode.

Two months later whilst on holidays in South Queensland, I met Scotto a week before my birthday. We instantly hit it off. The next week (my actual birthday) he invited me to his house for dinner.

“We have to go and have some photographs taken first,” he said when he picked me up.

Huh?? Whaaaat sort of photos? Nudey photos??? I was scared...

But it was okay… his mate was a bit of an amateur photographer and he took some romantic photos of us in the garden of his bushland property.

It transpired that this unexpected activity was also a bit of a stalling ploy. While we were having our photos taken, Scotto’s flatmate had been employed to light one hundred tea candles for me to espy as I walked in the front door, as well as putting the champagne on ice and heating the oven for dinner. Aaaaah… a true romantic (Scotto, not the flatmate).

Scotto does have a gorgeous, young daughter who lives with her Mum but is constantly up here on holidays joining in the insanity of Chez Poinker.

It wasn’t until Scotto leaned towards me many months later while we out to dinner and adoringly whispered,

“I love you Pinky… I see you as… the complete package,” that the penny dropped and I realised how right that clairvoyant had been.

But the tingles really went up my back about four months later when Scotto and I were buying engagement rings. We stopped into a coffee shop and I noticed an ordinary looking older woman staring at us, even more intently at Scotto. It was Miriam. She had a look on her face that clearly said,

Thursday, August 22, 2013

There are several days of the year when teachers are (more than usually) disinclined to drag themselves out of bed in the morning; days when we just know the kids are going to be even more highly strung than normal.

Days when we are genuinely frightened to walk through those school gates.

Take rainy days for example. Our rainy season in Townsville coincides with the beginning of the school year providing ample opportunity for the under elevens to irrevocably ruin their brand new black leather shoes by ‘accidentally’ jumping in the ubiquitous puddles.

The second there is a heavier than average deluge, twenty students will urgently need to go to the toilet so they can try out their massive umbrellas then return to the classroom sopping wet and shake themselves like puppies all over their brand new books.

Lunchtimes are spent in the classroom where packets of Maggi noodles are spilt all over the carpet and crunched into the fibres with muddy feet. We don’t get lunch breaks on those days and one year the rainy season went on for two months.

Teachers moved around the school like the walking dead; black shadows under their tortured eyes and twitching spasmodically like alcoholics going through withdrawal.

Windy days as well, are a teachers’ nightmare. I’m not sure why but the wind seems to blow right through the kids' ears stimulating the brain wiring and setting off unsavoury and unpredictable behaviour.

Tomorrow it’s dress-up day for National Book Week and we teachers nervously anticipate eight hundred over-excited, manic under-elevens to pour through the gates at eight-fifteen; outfitted as sword wielding pirates, fairies, various farm and native animals, aliens, Wimpy Kids and pretty much any book character they deem worthy of dressing up as.

I can tell you this much, Pippi Longstocking, Little Red Riding Hood and Ben 10 will not be in any mood to learn their times tables.

Naturally the teachers are also expected to join in the craziness and wear a costume tomorrow and in my usual procrastinating style, I didn’t bother to attempt sourcing a costume until yesterday. I nicked into Spotlight on the way home from work and was devastated to discover empty costume racks. Apparently every single damn school in the city is holding a book character parade… who knew?

Sadly, all that remained on the rack was a ‘Naughty Nurse’, a ‘Sexy French Maid’ and an ‘Elvis’ costume.

Darn it! I thought. Totally inappropriate!

Elvis never appeared in a children’s book...

After I’d paid for the nurse and maid costume, I noticed a discarded pair of devil’s horns sitting on the counter. Crap costumes are my specialty so I’m sure I’ll be able to transform them into something!Guess who I’m going as?

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

I know I’ve written about how Scotto and I intend retiring to a farm on Mt Tamborine and providing a home to a zillion Chihuahuas when we get older, but there is another vision I store in my head, 'the ideal fantasy scenario of our golden years'.

Imagine a Christmas table adorned with food and wine; each seat around the table filled with my five children and their laughing spouses.

Picture a fat, jolly Pinky wearing a nasty bathing suit three sizes too small and a portly, Santa-hat clad Scotto, lolling around on floating beds in the pool, hedonistically sipping champagne and playfully splashing the dozen or so grandchildren.

Sort of like the Waltons but without American accents or the unappealing overalls.

Bear in mind, this is my dream, not necessarily Scotto’s.

But Pinky! You’ll have four daughters-in-law and a son-in-law. You don’t think there might be a chance of conflict in the equation? I hear you chortle cruelly.

Let’s just say I’m optimistic.

Last night we escorted Lulu and her boyfriend to dinner for her birthday. Longboards on the Strand was her restaurant of choice and we had a great night dining and celebrating whilst overlooking the twinkling Cleveland Bay and chatting to the gorgeous, conversant, well-mannered and easy-going Jock.

Jock and Lulu

What with Hagar’s adorable girlfriend, Meggles and Lulu’s boyfriend Jock, things are pointing to the possibility that my kids have damn good taste. If they keep it up then my idealistic hopes for joyous and crowded family celebrations are not such a fanciful prospect after all.

Lulu was her usual domineering self all night but we managed to get our own back by ordering a surprise chocolate fondue with sparklers and raucously sang happy birthday to her intense shame and embarrassment.

Like most rugby players Jock has a great appetite

“Leave that bedroom door open, Lulu!” I cautioned after we arrived home and she and Jock were about to head upstairs.

“What do you think we’re going to do Mum? Make babies or something? Do you want a grandson or a granddaughter???” she demanded dictatorially, as poor, stunned Jock stood stock still with a mortified expression on his face.

I heard her bedroom door close and decided to let this one go. Even if Jock had been planning on any nefarious activities there was no way he was going to play them out now!

Monday, August 19, 2013

Like most mothers my kid’s birthdays make me a touch sentimental and tonight; the eve of Lulu’s birthday, is no exception. I recall a time about three weeks after she was born; I was nursing her whilst slurping tea and chatting with other Mums at a playgroup.

Suddenly I felt weird… strange… something didn’t feel normal. Then I abruptly realised what it was. I hadn’t been jolted by the involuntary stab of jealousy I’d been subconsciously feeling for the previous six years every time someone talked about their daughters. It wasn’t until that precise moment I realised how much I had yearned for a baby girl for all that time.

And wow, what a daughter she turned out to be.

I’ve never tried to be her friend. I don’t believe that’s being a ‘good’ mother. Besides she has zillions of friends already. So different to myself and yet in some ways similar, Lulu retains three main attributes which continue to amaze me; her leadership qualities, her sporting and athletic talent and her ability to talk to boys.

It is the latter proficiency (probably an aptitude strengthened by negotiating life with four older brothers) which particularly staggers me.

To say I was painfully shy around boys at sixteen would be a gross understatement. All my friends had boyfriends and at one stage I even sunk to the shameful depths of inventing a boyfriend in grade eleven.

“What’s his name then, Pinky?” asked my friend Wilhemina.

“Gary… Gary Dubois,” I responded with sincerity. (Gary Dubois had been a guest actor on the Partridge Family the previous night and I thought the name sounded exotic enough to be credible).

“Where’d ya meet him then?” she persisted dubiously.

“At the pictures,” I answered, quick as a fox. I don’t think she bought my story but thankfully she dropped the subject and my reputation remained intact.

By the middle of grade twelve my lack of male companionship was getting to be ridiculous.

I sort of fancied a boy called ‘Farcus’, even though I deemed his hair to be a bit too fuzzy for my taste and I’d never spoken to him or even looked him full in the face.

“Do you want me to drop a hint?” asked my friend Pip encouragingly.

She was tentatively granted permission and a few days later Farcus rang the home phone. He was a bit of a jock and captain of the volleyball team so of course I was forced to feign an affinity with physical exercise.

“I play squash every Saturday morning if you want to come along and watch?” I suggested, dicing with death. (The truth was, it was a squash coaching clinic for little kids.)

Farcus, true to his word, turned up at the squash courts on Saturday morning. Now I was never a Heather McKay on the court but the minute I sensed him standing at the top peering down I completely lost any modicum of coordination.

I must have ineptly swung the racket fifty times and missed the ball on each and every occasion. You could have taken a bite out of my humiliation it was so tangible. But like a true gentleman, Farcus withdrew in pitying embarrassment and waited for me to finish outside.

“So what’s wrong with your leg, Pinky?” he queried, pointing to an unappealing bandage on my leg with a brown blood stain the shape of Tasmania seeping through.

Now I could have said it was a sporting injury, or anything glamorous really, but instead I answered a bit too truthfully.

“Oh, I had a huge wart removed a couple of days ago. It was right on my shin bone and the doctor said the roots were really deep.”

I never heard from him again and by the next week he was already ‘going with’ another girl (who had fuzzy hair as well) and eventually married her. I joke not. Good Luck Chuck… that’s what I was!Happy Birthday darling Lulu!

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Even though Princess Lulu doesn’t turn seventeen for a few days she requested that we spend a mother and daughter day together at the local shopping mall. What she really wanted was for me to fork out $200 buckeroonies to have her long hair bleached, tinted and treated with some rare, exotic oil only found and extracted from the baby teeth of a Fairy Penguin.

“Don’t get it done like you did last time,” I cautioned, “with the top of your hair brown and the bottom bleached. It looks cheap.”

“Frankly, I don’t care what you say Mum, I don’t have to listen to what you think,” she replied tartly, forgetting who was footing the bill for this costly coiffure.

During her two hour pampering procedure I thought I’d enjoy a little indulgence of my own.

"Mum! Just go away! Just leave! You're spoiling our day out together!"

Swanning through Myers, I was unable to resist this Leona Edmiston frockle which I can wear to the Amateur Race Carnival next weekend.

… and this hat to go with it.

When I went back to check on Her Highness she was in the wash-basin part of the cycle.

"Mum! This head massage is so relaxing I feel like kicking my leg in the air like the dog!"

“I told the hairdresser what you said about my style looking cheap and trashy Mum. He said he wants to have a word with you.”

“WhatEVER,” I drawled and trounced out flicking my hair as I went, glancing over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't following me.

There was still at least 45 minutes to wait until she was finished so I went and had fake red claws glued on to match my new red dress. The technician was wearing a face mask to prevent inhaling acrylic fibres. Where the hell was mine? I held my breath for thirty minutes to protect myself from contracting acrylestosis. It was hard work.

I had to explain to Scotto when I returned home that now I have these long nails I won’t be able to cook or execute any housework for that matter for the next foreseeable future.

He took it fairly well.I popped my head once more into the salon to discover a revamped Lulu with shining golden locks and a big grin on her face.

It was blow-dried and straightened beautifully but don’t tell her this…

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